


The Adding Machine

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 02:11:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12854508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Oh-- nostalgia!





	The Adding Machine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MillicentCordelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillicentCordelia/gifts).



> The title of this story is lifted from a collection of essays by William S. Burroughs.  
> This takes place within the continuity of my stories, "Was ist die Befindlichkeit des Landes?" and "Heel Head Over", but it's not necessary to have read those stories for this one to make sense.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

He’s learning to live with the great deal of spare time that he now has. Say what you want about war, but at least, there’s something to do. To Victor’s consternation, for the first time in… years- it can’t be years- he’s forced to take a holiday. When he returns, there’s still a lot of waiting to do. He’s being paid, even to do nothing, so it’s not that. This is what any instrument of deadly precision must feel when there is no one to aim it at: why was it created, then?  
But questions like this aren’t really for Victor. If trouble won’t be delivered to him, he’ll just go out, and look for trouble. Without the ubiquitous gangs to shake them down until they’re forced to close, the leather bars are doing well. The police still demand protection, and extortion of individuals is alive and well, but blackmail on an industrial scale is something that Oswald seems to find distasteful. It’s… sweet, Victor thinks. Unfortunately, all of this prosperity has made them respectable. No longer fearing for their reputation, any old body can just walk in, their identity unconcealed. The dress code is relaxed, so people in straight clothes sail past the doorman for a nominal fee. After this, the tourists will surely come. Victor will no doubt one day find his face on a picture postcard.  
The good thing about the Liberator is that it’s never really had an identity, so there’s no identity to corrupt. It doesn’t bill itself as a gay bar-- but you’re not going to find any straight people wandering in, either. It was one of the bars that was safe for Victor to visit in the old days, when he didn’t look the way he does now. It was like the place could tell, somehow, that you belonged there, no matter what you seemed to be on the outside. The day that this place becomes respectable, accessible to the outside world, acceptable is the day that Victor leaves Gotham.  
The lights along the barrel of the spiral staircase are dim amber, but no one ever looses their footing. The chamber, itself, is sweetly dark, but somehow, everyone always finds their way to a comfortable perch, at the bar or in a booth.  
Victor blinks. It’s not an unpleasant surprise, but it’s a surprise, all the same. Victor smiles. Yes, it is unpleasant, but in the way that he likes: incongruous pieces grating together, friction that makes you try in vain to twist away.  
He sits down next to Penn, grinning as he starts when Victor calls, too loudly, to the bartender, “I’ll have whatever he’s having,” and points his finger downward at Penn’s glass, which contains something pale and pleasingly mysterious.  
“Mr. Zsasz,” he says. He says the ‘a’ like ‘ah’.  
“Mr. Penn,” Victor says, sitting up straight, mimicking his inflection.  
“I didn’t know you-”  
“Sure you did,” Victor interjects.  
“Well, I suspected, certainly,” Penn says, looking offended, pushing his glasses up his nose, “but one doesn’t like to presume.”  
“I like to presume,” Victor says, “I guessed about you. A long time ago, back when we were both working for Falcone.”  
“I’m surprised that you noticed me,” Penn says, looking at his drink. He takes his glass in both hands, and sips.  
“I notice everyone,” Victor says, careful not to sound dismissive. If Penn feels slighted, that’s no fun, at all. “You stick out. You’re so invisible, it makes you stick out.”  
“Yes, I suppose that that makes sense.”  
“Is this your usual haunt?” Victor sips the drink that the bartender placed in front of him. It wears a cap of foam, tastes of cocoa and spice.  
“I like it here,” Penn says, both defensive and dreamy, “No one asks you to explain yourself.”  
“That’s true,” Victor says, and looks around. There are women sitting with women, and men sitting with men. People who look like they could be both or neither, with dates or alone. A lady at the bar sighs as she removes her false eyelashes. A man and woman in leather talk about a book that they’ve both read. Victor thinks that he sees a young person with dyed black hair and shaven eyebrows, but this is just his imagination.  
“How did you come upon it?” Penn asks, his voice rising too much to the question. He’s a string pulled too far at both ends, on the verge of snapping.  
“An old friend of mine brought me here a long time ago.”  
“What was his name?”  
“Her name was Lady Grace.”  
The name flickers through Penn’s memory, and his eyes widen minutely. Victor smiles, and sips his drink, lets it warm him. That was the good thing about the old days: everyone knew each other.  
“She brought me into the business,” Victor continues.  
“Is she...” Penn looks away significantly.  
“Oh, no. Retired. She couldn’t change with the times. There isn’t much call anymore for someone who specializes. Oswald likes to keep things simple.”  
“Sometimes, simplicity is best.”  
“Sure,” Victor sips his drink, “Sometimes.”  
“Mr. Cobblepot’s revolutionized the city,” Penn protests.  
He smiles around his drink. “Slap me with a glove if you want to defend his honor.”  
It’s impossible to tell under these lights, but Victor’s sure that Penn reddens. “I think I should go,” Penn says quietly, but doesn’t move.  
“You could always punish me for talking out of turn.”  
He’s expecting the dry clap of outrage, but what he gets is a very long strip of silence. Finally, Penn says, “Was that a joke?”  
Victor shakes his head.  
“You mean… hurt you?” Penn turns his head slightly to the side.  
“That’s what I meant. This is really good,” Victor holds up his glass. The bartender nods at him.  
“Why… I’ve never done anything like that before.”  
“You don’t say.” Then, he looks for a long time into Penn’s eyes, his expression blank and open, so that Penn doesn’t take it as an insult, and get up and leave.  
“The opportunity never presented itself.”  
“You need to get out more often.” His drink appears, and Victor smiles.  
“How does- What do you...”  
“Well, first, what do you want?”  
There, now, he does see Penn blush. Maybe it was a trick of the lights, but he definitely saw something. Penn’s skin must be blazing; his heart must be pounding. Penn downs the rest of his drink, waits to get the bartender’s attention. He waves, as though calling for help.  
“It’s your first time, so we can keep it above the waist,” Victor says, “We could even keep our clothes on.”  
Puzzled, Penn frowns. “Is that possible?”  
“Oh, yes.”  
“May I finish my drink?”  
“Please do.” It’s fun being polite. It’s like the game has already started. They drink their drinks. Penn pays for Victor’s, which is a nice touch. They walk upstairs, back up into the street, and the chilly night air. Penn shivers. Victor buttons up Penn’s coat for him. In the back of the cab, he places his hand on Penn’s knee. Penn looks at him, his expression still puzzled, but soft.  
“I wasn’t expecting company,” Penn says in his apartment, fussing over imagined untidiness. “I hope you aren’t allergic to cats.”  
Victor smiles. “Nope.” A cat sits in the corner, blithely licking its paw. Another regards him from the top of a bookshelf.  
“Would you like something to drink?” Penn wrings his hands.  
“That’s okay.”  
“All right,” Penn says softly, a look of dread on his face.  
“Why don’t you tell me about working for Oswald,” Victor says, taking off his jacket. There’s a coat rack by the door. Nothing in Penn’s world is out of place. Except of, course, for Victor.  
“I admire anything done well,” Penn says with what can only be called passion.  
“Who doesn’t.”  
“No, you don’t understand,” his gaze is pleading, “Bringing forth order from chaos is a gift. Chaos, of course, is unavoidable, but if one can trick it into ordering itself- that is brilliant.”  
“So, you love him for his mind.”  
In this light, it’s easy to see that Penn is blushing. “You’re making fun of me,” he says sadly.  
“Well, punish me. It’s what I’m here for.”  
“How?”  
“What do you want to do?”  
“I’d like to slap you,” Penn says without hesitation.  
“Good start!”  
“Can I?”  
“Sure.”  
He stands still as Penn takes a deep breath, then strikes him with an open hand. It stings brightly, like champagne bubbles. Penn puts his hand over his mouth.  
“That was good,” Victor says, “Try it again.”  
Penn’s features set in resolution. He hits Victor again, much harder. Penn holds his hand in the other.  
“You get used to it,” Victor says, takes Penn’s hand in his and rubs the palm gently with his thumb. “What else?”  
“I’m not very good at this,” Penn says.  
Victor shrugs. “You’re learning. I’ll help you,” he looks at the ceiling, “You probably didn’t know him then, because Falcone had you locked up in his counting house or something, but I was around Fish Mooney’s all the time. He was a little blabbermouth in those days. He just wanted someone to pay attention to him. We were about the same age, started out around the same time, so he probably thought I was his friend. He told me all sorts of things. Mooney used to make him carry her bags when she went shopping. She used to take him into the dressing room with her. I guess she never heard the saying about not shitting where you eat, or maybe she just saw it as a perk,” Victor shrugs, “I don’t know. Anyway, I could never look at him the same way after that-”  
Penn hits him really hard. He’s not expecting it, so it throws his head to the side. For a glorious moment, he thinks, he feels nothing. Then, the world, full and pulsing, pours back into him. He laughs.  
“That’s not true!” Penn says.  
“No. No, it’s not. I made it up.”  
“You made it up? But why?”  
“Because it’s a game.”  
“Oh. Oh. I’m so sorry that I hit you.”  
Giddily, Victor laughs again. “That was the point!”  
“Oh.”  
“But you liked doing it, didn’t you?”  
Penn takes a deep breath. “Yes,” he says, the word like a breath of relief, itself.  
“Good, because I liked you doing it.”  
“But how do I know if you’re lying or telling the truth?”  
“Assume that I’m lying, but pretend that it’s true.”  
“I think I understand,” Penn says.  
“Good. What else do you want to do?”  
“What else can I do?”  
Victor thinks. “Do you have a ruler?”  
Penn holds up a finger, goes to his desk, and returns with a handful of rulers. “Metric or imperial?”  
Victor tries not to laugh. “It doesn’t matter.” He chooses a wooden one with a metal edge. “You know what they do to bad kids in Catholic school, don’t you?”  
Penn blinks. “I went to public school. My parents were agnostic.”  
“You can hit my hands with the ruler,” Victor says.  
“Oh.”  
“I’ll help you again. You know about Jim Gordon, don’t you-” Victor doesn’t even have to finish the sentence. Penn raps him, hard, across the knuckles. Penn’s mouth is pinched in tightly; his eyes, warning. Victor smiles. “You know that Oswald is in love with him.” It’s neither as hard nor as shocking this time, but it’s a solid, satisfying splash of pain that crackles through Victor’s fingers. The tips tingle. He closes his eyes, swallows. When he opens them again, Penn is looking at him expectantly. “Nygma tried to kill him, but Jim broke his heart.”  
“The other hand,” Penn says evenly. Victor holds it out. Penn hits him, and he gasps, for Penn’s benefit. Penn’s mouth falls open. He says that he needs to catch his breath. Victor goes to the kitchen, and helps himself to some cookies from a painted cookie jar on the counter.  
“I can make you a cup of tea,” Penn says, “Now… or later?”  
“No, thanks,” Victor says brightly.  
“I don’t want to hurt you. I know that you work with your hands.”  
“I know what I can take. We can try something different, though.”  
“Like what?”  
“Do you have any rope?”  
“Rope?” His mouth, the ‘o’ in the word. “I’m afraid not.”  
“I’m sure you don’t have handcuffs.”  
Penn shakes his head.  
“Silk scarves?”  
“I have handkerchiefs.”  
“Tie them together.”  
While Penn’s looking for them, Victor picks a few things out of the innocent clutch of Penn’s belongings, arranges them neatly on the dining room table. Penn returns, and Victor sits in a chair, has Penn tie his hands behind his back.  
“Now what?” Penn asks.  
“Well, that’s up to you. I put out some things that you can use on me.”  
“How?”  
“The human body is designed to feel things. We only think of some parts of it as being sensitive, but there are others. Fingertips. Earlobes. My tongue.”  
“I could hurt you.”  
Then, Victor realizes that this is part of the game. “Yes, you could. You could hurt me very badly.” He smiles. He hisses, “So, be careful!”  
Penn bites his lip. He picks up an ice cube, drags it across Victor’s throat as though it were a knife. Victor’s lips twitch. Penn tells him to open his mouth, and presses the ice cube into Victor’s tongue, lets the ice melt between it and his own fingers. The ice leaves behind a full, burning stain. Penn brushes Victor’s fingertips with a pin, then pokes them quickly. One sensation chases another faster than Victor can react, and he shifts in his seat as though pulled by unseen hands. He’ll have to try this sometime, on someone else.  
“There’s blood,” Penn says.  
“Get a band aid,” Victor says, breathing deeply.  
Penn’s hands are gentle, careful. “Kiss it,” Victor says.  
“What?”  
“My finger. Kiss it.” He feels the brush of Penn’s lips where his finger isn’t covered; through the band aid, he feels featureless pressure and warmth.  
Penn puts a clothespin on one of his uninjured fingers. Victor used to do this to himself when he was a kid. All pain is really the same; it has flavors, but no personality. Still, Victor imagines that this is an old friend. “My wrist,” he tells Penn after a moment, feels Penn pull back the cuff of his shirt, hunt around for a place where the skin is loose enough to be clamped. Victor lets himself make a little sound, and Penn makes one to answer; surprised, delighted. This doesn’t require much effort at all, so that’s not the reason that Penn is breathing heavily. His breathing audible, his lips parted, his jacket now on another chair, Penn wraps rubber bands tightly around Victor’s fingers, his wrists. He holds an ice cube against Victor’s earlobe, the cold water dripping down Victor’s collar, onto his skin.  
“What now?” Penn says, breathless.  
“What do you want to do to me?”  
“I want to kiss you. Can I do that?”  
“Which one of us is tied to the chair, Mr. Penn?”  
Penn sinks his body down onto Victor’s lap. At first, he hesitates, looks at Victor, as though waiting for direction. Victor remains silent. Penn takes off his glasses. His breath warms Victor’s lips. He lays his hand on Victor’s cheek. He kisses Victor for a long time. Then, Penn bites him. Makes Victor start, hips pushing against Penn’s. Penn pulls away, looks at him, kisses him again, softly. Bites him again. Victor smiles.  
“If you wanted to untie one of my hands, you could make it do something.”  
Penn’s eyes are alarmingly clear. For a moment, he looks at Victor, and then he unties Victor’s right hand. Standing over him, he looks down at Victor. He sits, his back to Victor’s front, moves just enough to make it interesting. He sets Victor’s hand on his knee, like it was in the cab.  
“Do you want me to talk to you?”  
“Yes.”  
“You like this.”  
“Yes,” Penn says softly.  
“You like hurting me. You like that I like it.”  
“Yes,” Penn whispers.  
“You wouldn’t do this with him, though, would you?”  
“I couldn’t,” Penn says, and Victor takes pity on him, moves his hand up along the inner curve of Penn’s thigh.  
“Why not?”  
“I don’t think he’d be interested.”  
“Once,” moving his hand further up, “I watched him kiss Fish Mooney’s shoes.”  
Penn gasps.  
“He didn’t seem all that upset about it.” He slips his hand between Penn’s legs, rests it there. “There was a rumor about him and Maroni, but there’s no way of knowing whether or not it was true.”  
“What do you think?” Penn wriggles against him.  
“I think that he was constantly getting beaten up in those days, so you wouldn’t think the bruises were out of place.”  
“What else?” Penn says, charmingly greedy. He presses his hand over Victor’s, makes it move.  
“He wanted to know what I had done to Butch Gilzean. Some of it, he wanted me to show him.”  
“That’s not true,” Penn says, shocked, amused, seeking, wondering.  
“Imagine if it were,” Victor says, and undoes the button of Penn’s trousers. The zipper. Slips his hand inside.  
“Oh. I couldn’t.”  
“Yes, you can.” Victor’s over-sensitized, filled with little points of pain like stars. He’s excited, but he’s satisfied. It’s with a dreaming sleeper’s indifferent curiosity that he wants to see what will happen next.  
What happens next is that Penn goes off with one touch. Efficient and silent. It should be a joke. It isn’t, though. Most people are different, like this. Penn is the same, though. He is completely himself.  
They stay like this a moment, Penn’s body pleasantly heavy and warm against Victor. It’s like pulling a blanket over his head, luxuriating in the prickling weight, and the damp claustrophobia of his recycled breath. He closes his eyes. He feels Penn get off of him, listens to Penn move around. Penn unties his hand; Victor lets it fall. He opens his eyes. One of the cats is walking across the room. Penn appears in the doorway, his hands nervously clutched in front of him.  
Sitting up straight, Victor rubs his tongue against the swollen place on the inside of his lip. He tastes blood. He smiles.


End file.
